


Pleated Silk

by jamieranch



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Courtesan AU, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, and very gay, but like extremely mild, felix is a trained swords dancer, overall it's pretty tame, regency-esque setting with renaissance attributes, several blue lions cameos, sylvain is a Horse Boy, time period? sorry idk her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24094471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamieranch/pseuds/jamieranch
Summary: The afternoon sun catches the golden pins in his elaborate updo, reflecting like starlight in the length of his midnight hair. He is, by all accounts, a picture of elegance--- save for the molten copper of his deep-set eyes, which seem to pierce the skin of Sylvain’s face with their intensity.“Who the hell are you?” he demands more so than asks, and Sylvain finds his tongue suddenly lodged in the back of his throat.“Uh--- Stable Boy?” shit, no, that’s not right. The man’s eyes narrow with a striking lack of patience. He tries again. “Sylvain, actually. Welcome to Castle Fhirdiad.”
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Kudos: 28





	Pleated Silk

**Author's Note:**

> this idea has consumed me body and soul for three days now. i don't write fic. i don't know what demon possessed me to pump out 2.7k words but here we are. enjoy the fruits of my labor.

Sylvain Jose Gautier is a simple man with simple wants. At least, this is what he tells himself as he strokes the gently huffing nose of a sharp-eyed mare. She is a noble creature, tall and stately, her midnight coat reflecting the streaks of morning sunlight like stars. Her gaze is striking, full of wisdom and independence the likes of which few humans understand, and it tells Sylvain, quite pointedly, that he is only brushing his calloused fingers along her snout because she deigns to allow it. Sylvain is grateful for the privilege.

“‘Atta girl,” he coos in a gentle baritone reserved only for his horses, as he offers her a crisp slice of his own humble breakfast. She sniffs it, and seems to scoff against his hand before she accepts. Her icy front is impressive, but she cannot fool Sylvain--- he knows apples are her favorite. 

He offers her neck an affectionate pat before he moves away to tend to his chores. Hauling buckets of water and oats, shoveling hay, shining saddles and polishing silver stirrups--- it isn’t tedious. Not really, anyway, not anymore. Instead he finds it almost meditative. The sun warms his skin where it peeks through the windows, as welcome as the quiet of the early hour. Sylvain is alone here, surrounded only by the soft clapping of hooves and quiet braying of his friends, their eyes and ears unjudging as he hums old ballads to himself. 

Even alone, he finishes his work with hands made quick by practice--- a small blessing on a Wednesday morning, warmed by the fresh tidings of spring. The horses are rarely ridden on Wednesday, ignored in favor of the incoming steeds of various dukes and diplomats. This means that it is Sylvain’s responsibility to see that the estate’s horses are properly exercised. It is his final chore of the morning, exclusive to one day of the week, and it is the one he takes the most pleasure in by far.

His first choice is simple--- the midnight majesty is by far the most restless, fickle and volatile when her energy is pent up, and Sylvain wastes no time in saddling her. It is today, as it is most days, a finicky task when the beast is shifting and throwing her mane as she does. A leftover slice of apple distracts her well enough, though, and in earning her cooperation, Sylvain comes to mount her with practiced ease. They are off like a crack of lightning in seconds.

A milkmaid shrieks as they bolt through the stable doors, and, furious at having nearly been trampled, shouts something pointed. Sylvain does not hear it over the fresh waves of wind that whip past his ears and tousle his hair. He doesn’t particularly care, either, and the wink-and-wave he offers as she shrinks into the distance are but a small courtesy in the wake of the morning’s brief freedom.

Sylvain Jose Gautier is a simple man with simple wants, and _this_ \--- fresh air, damp grass, and the fading view of a soft-cheeked milkmaid’s backside--- is all he could ever need.

  
  


* * *

It is nearly noon by the time he returns, disheveled and glistening from exercise. The milkmaids have scattered, off to churn their butter and deliver their daily milk to the kitchens no doubt, and in their place are the busy bodies of every groundskeeper and stable hand shuffling about their work. Sylvain is late. 

“And where in the seven hells have _you_ been?”

He knows the voice and the tone so well he can see it before he even turns around--- she will be standing rimrod straight in an effort to bolster her height, one hand perched against the curve of her hip, threatening as the shining emerald of her glare. Sylvain doesn’t find her nearly as intimidating as she’d like. Something about the muck on her boots and the hasty tuck of her unbrushed hair makes him want to tousle it. Stablemaster Ingrid very much _wants_ to cast an intimidating figure, however, and who is Sylvain to deny a woman her pleasures? He glances at her over one shoulder as he coaxes the exhausted mare back into her stall.

“Uh, exercising the horses?” His reply is cheeky; the hard line of Ingrid’s mouth doesn’t soften.

“Oh, so you planned to give them all a turn?”

He did, in truth, but the strict frames of scheduling often fail to embed themselves in his mind. Time seems to slip like sand through his fingers on a proper ride. Sylvain purses his lips.

“I may have gotten the _slightest_ bit distracted.” 

“Right. That’s what I thought.” There is no disappointment in her voice. For all the years they’ve known each other, Ingrid knows what, or, in this case, what _not_ to expect from him. He prefers it that way, and offers no defense. “You know I can’t cover for you forever, right? There are few enough hands as it is. If the work piles up, someone will notice, and we’ll _all_ be--”

Sylvain tunes her out halfway through unbuckling the mare’s bridle. Ingrid’s lectures are always the same. He could recite them by memory alone if asked. _Lazy, selfish, crude._ It all boils down to the same thing, the same blank bullets that shoot to kill and always, _always_ miss. He likes that Ingrid never stops trying, though. He’s always found her passion admirable.

“I’m not asking you to cover for me, Ingrid,” he interrupts when her voice begins to rise, fingers running through the fire of his hair. It’s the sole hint of his exasperation, his concern, but it’s enough to make Ingrid close her mouth. “I’ll keep up with my share, alright? Nobody’s getting in trouble--- now quit frowning at me like that. It’ll give you wrinkles.”

If it soothes her, it doesn’t show in her face. She only sighs, defeated, perhaps disappointed, pinching the bridge of her nose in that way she does when she knows she isn’t getting through. 

“Just--- don’t make me have to dismiss you. Please.” 

It’s a hollow threat and they both know it. Sylvain is good with horses, and, despite his vices, the work always gets done. So what if he forgets the time, takes a nap in the sun, has a clandestine roll in the hay with the cute maid from the upper floor of the servants’ quarters? He hasn’t been caught once in twenty-three years--- at least, not by anyone that matters.

His smile is bright when he presses his hand to his chest, bare skin exposed by the rumpled collar of his working shirt. “I _solemnly_ swear. On my life.”

It is only an appeasement. The contracted promise is vague at best, and he’s sure Ingrid _knows_ , but it is all she can do to be satisfied with half-integrity. In reality, as overseer of the stables she can do as she pleases with her stablehands, but they’ve both done this song and dance enough to know they’ll keep doing it, a clockwork ritual, until one of them finally gets their head kicked in.

“I’ll hold you to it, you know.” 

He knows. He keeps his smile, wide and warm. She tries very hard not to smile back.

“Good. Don’t run off again--- there’s a guest meant to arrive at noon.”

Sylvain quirks a brow, his question is silent, but one frequently asked among the palace staff. Ingrid folds her arms, pretending to hate the gossip.

“I’m told it’s a foreign diplomat. Of sorts.”

His brow quirks higher.

“I don’t _know_ , Sylvain! Do I look like I care about politics? Just go meet the carriage so we can stable the horses.”

It’s an out, the signature on the bottom of their truce, and Sylvain takes it with no hesitation.

* * *

The task, in theory, is unextraordinary. Most coachmen can recognize a stableboy by the state of his boots alone, and hand off their burden with little more than a curt glance down the length of their noses. It is to Sylvain’s great surprise, then, that he should instead find a large leather suitcase thrust into his arms instead.

“See to it that nothing gets damaged,” intones the coachman, in such a tight, nasally drawl that Sylvain has to wonder if the man was only born with one functioning nostril. “And don’t get any _ideas_ , either. If I find anything missing, I’ll have your fingers sawed at the knuckles.”

Sylvain finds himself blinking rather stupidly, bewildered by the foreign he so clumsily clutches, fighting the urge to simply drop it on the man’s freshly shined boots. Perhaps the only thing worse than a self-important diplomat is a self-important diplomat’s self-important driver.

“Uh, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m just here to---”

The man raises a stiff, wrinkly hand, and Sylvain shuts his mouth on instinct, though the insult of it makes his molars grind. Everything about the coachman is rigid, even his gait as he steps up the back of the ornate carriage to unload its luggage. If he notices the way Sylvain’s brow furrows, he says nothing.

“Don’t just stand there,” he barks, and the command makes Sylvain bristle, but he is, by now, a master caging protests behind his teeth. Instead, he follows the stiff gesture to the carriage’s gold-trimmed side door. “Make yourself useful.”

“Isn’t that _your_ job?” The quip comes faster than he can stop it, bolstered by vexation, _a waste of time_ , but the glare he receives in response practically forces the words back down his throat. He sets the suitcase gently at the base of the growing pile of luggage. “...Sir.”

Sylvain has never much cared for the architecture of carriages. Admiring them as they passed always felt like gazing at futility. He could barely afford the fare on a public ride, with shoddy wheels and muddied trim and hard, worn-out seats with his meagre wages, let alone dare to imagine himself bounding through the countryside in his own private car. (He’d prefer traversing on horseback, anyway.) This particular carriage is, even to his undiscerning eye, the height of luxury--- an elegant thing of pure black and shining gold, raised high on its ostentatious wheels, the ornate lamps on each of its four corners still lit from a long night of continuous travel. The curtains (crushed velvet, if he had to guess) are firmly closed, and framed by an intricate detailing about the windows, no doubt hand painted, along with the raised crest that decorates the door. As if the carriage itself weren’t enough of an indication of status. It’s all gibberish to Sylvain, regardless. He reaches for the handle without giving the thing a second glance.

The door swings open before he gets halfway there.

“Just how long are you going to _sit_ there on your fat--”

The man who stands before him, bent beneath the frame, one foot frozen on the unfolded step, is a perfect mirror of Sylvain’s wide-eyed gape. Well, better than a perfect mirror, actually. He’s a great deal less rugged. His tailcoat--- if you can call it that--- is long, pleated silk of the deepest blue he’s ever seen, cinched at the waist and draping down his trousers to kiss the heels of his perfectly polished overknee boots. The afternoon sun catches the golden pins in his elaborate updo, reflecting like starlight in the length of his midnight hair. He is, by all accounts, a picture of elegance--- save for the molten copper of his deep-set eyes, which seem to pierce the skin of Sylvain’s face with their intensity.

“Who the hell are you?” he _demands_ more so than asks, and Sylvain finds his tongue suddenly lodged in the back of his throat.

“Uh--- Stable Boy?” _shit, no_ , _that’s not right_. The man’s eyes narrow with a striking lack of patience. He tries again. “Sylvain, actually. Welcome to Castle Fhirdiad.”

He reestablishes his foothold on reality with a wide grin and plan that is objectively foolproof. Sylvain will offer the strange diplomat (of sorts?) his hand, and he will kiss the back of those long fingers with all the grace of someone who was _not_ literally raised in a barn. Then, the man’s high cheekbones will flush a soft pink that strangely suits his otherwise cutting visage, then Sylvain will offer to show him the grounds, _then---_

Well. Perhaps it isn’t _completely_ foolproof. 

Perhaps it’s actually rather far-fetched.

The man doesn’t take Sylvain’s hand. Instead, he pushes past him with his chin held high, and lets himself down from the carriage steps with the steeled grace of a leaping panther.

“Shouldn’t you be seeing to the horses, then, stable boy?” his tone is flatter than the ground they both walk on, and Sylvain can’t tell if he’s an ass or just being cheeky. Maybe both. Sylvain purses his lips.

“Between you and me, I’m _trying_ , but your boy old man Jenkins over there seems pretty bad at his job.” The stranger’s stare is flat, but not irritated. He thinks. “Is he always such a pompous shitbag?”

It was, apparently, the right question to ask, because something _flashes_ in the amber of his irises, and Sylvain has to physically stop himself grinning too wide.

“Yes.” is his reply, just as flat as before, but teetering with something bordering on mirth. Sylvain stifles a snort. “Why don’t you ignore him and do _your_ job. Maybe he’ll learn something.”

It’s a thinly-veiled insult and Sylvain knows it, but it’s not _nearly_ as vexing coming from such a pretty little mouth. The man seems to teeter back and forth in his speech, clearly educated, but the vernacular of nobility does nothing to dull the sharpness of his tongue. It’s almost refreshing.

“Yeah? What about you, princess, can you handle him all by yourself?” The diplomat bristles visibly. Sylvain can practically see the protest, the _threat_ forming at the tip of his tongue. It just makes him laugh, boldly, self-preservation entirely lost to him. “ _Relax_. It was a joke.”

That straight-angled nose scrunches, like a child refusing a helping of steamed broccoli. “I didn’t find it particularly funny.” Clearly. 

Self-preservation returns with the emergence of a real and proper manservant, the _actual_ courier of luggage, if Sylvain was to guess, from the palace’s grandiose front doors. He takes a generous step backwards, feeling much like a toddler with his hand caught in the cookie jar. So to speak.

“Master Fraldarius, I presume.” says the servant, and Sylvain knows him instantly. The stone-grey hair that falls in his face as he bows is actually something of a relief--- at least he knows Ashe Duran won’t rat him out for fraternizing. He flashes Sylvain a questioning raise of his brow as he rises. Sylvain offers a curt shrug in return.

_Master Fraldarius_ is all begrudging formality. Every movement, from his tight bow to the controlled swing of his legs as he walks, is laced with a subtle rigidity that screams discomfort. Obviously, he isn’t used to this kind of attention, but is practiced enough with etiquette to just barely navigate. Ashe helps Jenkins (or whatever his name is, he doesn’t care) with the small mountain of luggage, hauling it with a strength that betrays his slender frame, and Fraldarius follows behind them with his hands folded tensely behind his back. Sylvain takes the cue to move on with his life.

The climb to the driver’s seat is easy, practiced, and the reigns of the two tired horses in front fall comfortably into his hands. He finds it likely the poor things have been pulling for hours without being rested or watered, and as much as he hates to have to push them, the carriage must be pulled around back to be cleaned and stored until its next use. He flicks the reins only once, the quiet crack of the leather drowned by the click of his tongue, and the carriage begins to pull off.

The party of three are already halfway up the stone steps. Sylvain knows because he is looking, watching the back of that dark head of hair in case he deigns to give him a backward glance. He does not. Jenkins does, though, looking, of all things, _surprised_ to see him perched in the driver’s seat. Sylvain only offers him a cheeky grin and a rude gesture, laughing at the blanche of his wrinkled cheek as he rounds the corner.

He only wishes the man in silks had seen it. Maybe he would’ve laughed.


End file.
